Lord Porthoning turned quickly and looked at me. There was a change in his expression that puzzled me.
"Well, out with it!" he snapped.
I pointed to the door across the hall.
"I want you to step this way," I said firmly.
I expected an irritable outburst, but to my surprise he turned and preceded me toward the door. We entered the room and found Mr. Bundercombe there alone. Lord Porthoning looked from one to the other of us. His heavy gray eyebrows were drawn together; his face was the embodiment of a snarl.
"Now what in the name of all that's reasonable," he began in his hard, rasping voice, "made you bring me in here? I don't want to better my acquaintance with that old man, your father-in-law! I'd a good deal rather he'd stayed in his own country. I don't like the looks of him—I hate fat men! Don't keep me waiting here, Paul. If you want my advice I'll give it to you. If you want anything else you won't get it."
Mr. Bundercombe had moved softly round until he was standing with his back to the door. His manner was the one he had assumed so successfully in church—dignified, almost solemn.
"Paul," he said, "I asked you to invite this person in here because, now that you are Eve's husband, I felt that the interests of your family must be considered before my own inclinations. In my country we treat all men alike, and I am bound to say that if you'd been married to Eve out in Okata, and I'd seen any old skunk, whether he'd been an earl or what he looks like—a secondhand clothes dealer—sneaking Eve's presents, I'd have had him in prison before you'd reached the station."
"Mr. Bundercombe!" I exclaimed, horrified; it seemed to me that my father- in-law was carrying this affair too far.
Lord Porthoning, from whom I had expected a torrent of fierce abuse, stood looking at us both with an expression no written words could portray. His cheeks were ashen. His hands, which were crossed upon the knob of his cane, were shaking. Mr. Bundercombe extended his right hand.